


The Binding of Three

by devilsduplicity



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Romance, Slow Build, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-07 23:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilsduplicity/pseuds/devilsduplicity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course an innocent night drinking with Sherlock would lead to irreversible consequences. What else did John think was going to happen? How three people navigate the rocky road to polyamory, which turns out to be more complicated than solving murder mysteries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LoveLongSinceForgotten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveLongSinceForgotten/gifts).



> Set after _The Empty Hearse_ , sort of before/during _The Sign of Three_ , but rearranges the timeline a bit. John and Sherlock never went to jail for that drunken night, and the whole “I-almost-died-in-a-Guy-Fawkes-pyre” thing hasn’t happened (yet).

The morning sun slapped John’s cheek with a warm, screaming kiss. Sound was muffled, and his tongue was heavy with a thick layer of stale beer. He was familiar enough with the situation to know he was hungover, but the cogs in his mind still ground together in an attempt to piece together the details. A blurry shot glass slugged along his memory -- he could still taste the sting of liquor burning down the back of his throat. A giant beaker full of Fosters, sneaking shots into his and Sherlock’s drinks, and the bloody _case_ they’d tried to solve.

He chuckled at that last one, and patted the arm slung around his middle when it tightened and pulled him closer.

A thin slit in his bedroom curtain let a flood of light lick down the right side of John’s face. He squinted both eyes downward, piecing together the one thousand piece puzzle that was his life with the swift aptitude of a sugar rushing five-year-old.

_Mary_ , was his first thought. The comforting dead weight of a lolled head rose and fell with the rise of his chest. John lay on his back in the middle of his bed, fully clothed, right arm slung above him and crooked to fit snugly beneath his head. His left arm sheltered the line of a gently curved spine. Despite his nauseous stomach, the relaxed position comforted him.

Until more details started to grind into place.

Like how _his_ bedroom curtain stretched snugly from one side of the window to the next, leaving no room for light to scurry in. Or that Mary’s hair was a straight blonde, not a curly dark brown. Or that, if Mary was the one with an arm locked around his stomach and a leg curled over his hip, it wouldn’t be a hard clothed chest pressed against his side, but soft, squishy boobs.

There were no boobs, and John nearly had the world’s quietest heart attack.

_Sherlock_. It penetrated his mind like a drill. _I’m sleeping with Sherlock. I’m_ cuddling _with Sherlock_.

It all came rushing back with as much cliché as a movie memory sequence. Sherlock stumbling around the floor of an unfamiliar apartment. A landlord kicking them out, a taxi ride back to Baker Street, Sherlock’s projectile-vomit-bomb surging out the cabbie’s window as they made that last turn. John had forced Sherlock to brush his teeth before passing out, and then--

They were in Sherlock’s room. In Sherlock’s bed. Shoes were kicked to the floor, socks scattered. John’s belt was coiled beneath the window like a dead snake. Sherlock’s coat was crumpled in the corner nearest the door.

John cleared his throat softly, and tried to get up before the butterflies in his sternum chewed through his heart. He could feel a rush of bile ready to spill out.

But Sherlock’s grip tightened, his nose nuzzled John’s chest. The butterflies stilled, curious. John patted Sherlock’s back, certain this had been a mistake for all parties involved, and pulled away again, but Sherlock still clung to him, the taller man’s leg thrown across John’s hips, the gangly arm a soothing--

Wait, _soothing?_

“John,” Sherlock mumbled, his voice a rattle full of gravel.

John didn’t notice his own blush until he felt the heat of it flood across his cheeks and down his neck.

“Yea--” John paused, cleared his throat. “Yeah?”

Sherlock moved closer, placed his cold cheek in the crook of John’s neck, nose nudging John’s chin, and replied, “Mmnn.”

_Unparalleled eloquence_ , John thought, then let out a breath that had caught in his throat.

Okay, so the mighty detective was still drunkenly unconscious, which meant John still had some hope of rectifying the situation. He wasn’t sure what would happen if Sherlock woke up and found them in bed together. Would he flip out and refuse to be best man? Or worse, would he think this was just an everyday best friend sort of adventure? Would he insist it happen again?

John’s soldier instincts kicked in.

First, he had to wrestle his legs away from the knot Sherlock had put them in. John’s right arm slowly uncrooked from behind his head and splayed against the bed for support. He pulled his left leg as fluidly as he could from between Sherlock’s curled limbs, pausing every time Sherlock made a soft sound of protest. With his lower half finally free, John pulled back the arm that braced Sherlock’s spine. With as much finesse as a hangover could possibly grant him, he picked at the raised sleeve of the other’s suit jacket, and lifted Sherlock’s arm from around his stomach. While he was momentarily free, John shimmied away from underneath Sherlock’s reach, lowered his friend’s arm back down, slung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat up.

And promptly fell back down.

Blood rushed through his head. The room spun around and punched him in the chest. Butterflies migrated from his sternum to his stomach, and John’s skull collided with Sherlock’s curled legs.

He winced when Sherlock jerked awake, twisted onto his back, and bolted upright. The unfortunate angle of everything meant John’s head was now cradled in Sherlock’s lap, and both of them blinked owlishly. 

“Uh,” John said, and tried to ignore the feeling of guilt that choked him.

“It’s morning,” Sherlock said, his body frozen, eyes washing over John’s face like a bucket of ice.

“Yes,” John replied, then tried to lift up, but his throbbing skull beat him back down. He laid his head back down in Sherlock’s lap, cheeks heating up, a sputtering excuse on the tip of his tongue.

Sherlock’s cool fingers darted to John’s forehead and massaged his temples, face expressionless. It was startling, but not unpleasant, and made John’s body melt into the touch. His legs were still twisted over the side of the bed, his back bent uncomfortably, but at least the drum circle in his head was quieting down.

“So last night,” John said after an uncomfortable silence, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes sliding half closed. He resisted the urge to lean into the touch, to fall back asleep, to _purr_.

“I miscalculated,” Sherlock said, eyes cold and blank, voice still ever-so-slightly slurred. Still staring at John, but drifting somewhere distant.

“I thought that’s what the beakers were for.”

“They weren’t beakers.”

“Fine, test tubes, whatever.”

“Graduated cylinders, five hundred milliliter capacity.”

John rolled his eyes, internally, because physically rolling his eyes at the moment would probably accidentally murder him, considering how disorientated his was. Sherlock’s absentminded massage was helping, though it did nothing to soothe the awkward embarrassment he felt.

“Well,” John said, “It was… an interesting night.”

“It was awful,” Sherlock replied, fingers pausing on John’s scalp. “We’ll have to try again.”

The thought of another night like the last gave John the strength to roll away. His stomach turned and threatened to flip over.

“No. No no no,” John protested, pulling his legs up and huddling on the bed, feet at the headboard, back turned to Sherlock. “My wedding’s in a week. I need to recover.”

He grabbed his stomach and tried to bury his face into the blanket’s soothing darkness. John felt the bed dip when Sherlock moved his legs over the side, and realign when the detective got up. A minute passed, maybe two, then a plop and fizzle invaded John’s ears as Sherlock’s face loomed in front of him.

“For your head,” he said, glass in hand, white bubbles sliding to the top like carbonation. He crouched by the side of the bed, one elbow on the mattress for balance.

“Look at you,” John said, lifting up just enough to grab the glass without spilling it. “Looking out for another human being. Your mother would be proud.”

“My mother would be shocked.” Sherlock stood up, straightening his back, then pinned John in place with his empty gaze. “Your companionship has the uncanny ability to stimulate my anterior insular cortex. The unfortunate side effect: arbitrary feelings of allegiance toward a sentient being aside from oneself, resulting in increased social patterns similar to that of a pack mentality.”

John blinked.

“English, please?”

“... You’re my best friend. And I believe helping one another nurse a hangover falls under the burden of friendship.”

John choked on his drink, sputtered, and stared. He could hear the pause in Sherlock’s voice, the carefully constructed sentences. The nervousness in the other’s diction. How the words ‘best friend’ still sounded like a question, or a coughed up wad of disbelief.

“Oh,” John said, then cleared his throat when he noticed Sherlock was still staring at him expectantly. “Oh, yes! Well, um. That’s definitely, ah. In the handbook. Of friendship. I guess.”

_Cuddling in bed?_ John winced as the thought invaded his head. _Not so much._

Something else struck him as odd, aside from the cuddling and the head massage and the _empathy_ that Sherlock seemed to have pulled out of his closet and dusted off for a spin around town. John couldn’t put his finger on it at first, but a moment more and the thought slapped him in the face.

“You said my name,” he stated, the words spilling out like so much squeezed toothpaste. The tone was all wrong -- it sounded like an accusation. “I mean, earlier,” he corrected, that heat coming again, covering his face like a thin blanket. “When we were-- you know. You said my name. Why?”

Sherlock whipped his head away. His eyes fixated on the window with the tiny ray of light that slipped around the curtain. Lips pressed thin, eyebrows pulled together. A long moment passed.

“Did I?” he said, voice low and smooth. “When?”

“When we--” John said, cutting himself off, sitting up in the bed, holding his head. “This morning.”

“When we what?”

“This _morning_. We were, you know.” John rubbed the side of his face while he slipped on his own words. For some reason, he felt like they were playing chicken.

“I do not.” Sherlock was an interrogator's worst nightmare.

“We were in your bed.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said, voice thick with fake admiration. “So I said your name while we were in my bed.”

“Yes,” John said, left hand causing little tremors on the surface of the glass of water he held, right hand closed into a tight fist.

“And what can you deduce from this?” Sherlock pressed, his profile the only thing John could see.

John jumped up too quickly. Half of the water sloshed from the glass and onto the carpeted floor, and the spinning room tried to push him back down. He set his feet apart and held his ground.

“I don’t _know_!” he said, voice loud enough to make his own head throb. “You’re the bloody detective here. So tell me. Why was I in your bed? Why were you clinging to me? Why did you say _my_ name?”

_Of all the names in the world,_ John thought, head swimming with his own emphasis. _Of all the people he has catalogued up in that filing cabinet of a brain of his._

Silence filled the room like a thick liquid seeping in the ears. It lasted long enough for John to believe he accidentally broke Sherlock.

But then that rough voice choked out: “I don’t know.”


	2. Ex-Dee Colon-Pee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Sherlock's definition of a boring case is only slightly disconcerting, and John is done. Just done.

That was the cincher, wasn’t it? Pieces clicked into place, Sherlock’s brain working at half capacity, the other half occupied with quelling the axe-wielding barbarian that knocked around in his skull. His sheer ineptitude screamed at him from the night before -- was that how normal people lived? God, how did they keep from offing themselves?

Sleeping in bed together was an easy mystery to solve. They’d obviously survived massive amounts of alcohol poisoning, had stumbled toward the same room, and fallen into the same bed. Even the compromising position could be explained: Sherlock was in the habit of sleeping on his side, whereas John slept on his back.

But mumbling John’s name in a haze of unconscious thought?

There were three possibilities. Sherlock’s tired mind was telling John to move over. Unlikely, since the bed was queen sized, plenty of space, and he’d clung to the doctor regardless. High blood alcohol content could have caused a drop in core body temperature, and subtly influenced Sherlock to seek out a heat source. But inebriation brought about a false perception of heat that would trick the mind into believing the body was already warm. An uncanny feeling of… friendship could have prompted the utterance of John’s name, but from Sherlock’s understanding of the word, simple allegiance seemed an unlikely cause for naming his subconscious thoughts with a whisper.

He flipped through a mental catalogue of social behavioral patterns.

Dedication? Loyalty? Loneliness?

If the latter, that implied feelings of alienation while still in physical contact with the alienator.

Mentally, that didn’t add up. Sherlock had always felt a curious connection to his partner-in-solving-crime, and though John certainly wasn’t on his level of acumen, there was a link between their minds that satisfied Sherlock’s intellect.

That left an emotional sense of estrangement.

The thought made Sherlock pause.

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable…

John’s wedding was in a week. Things were going to change, and Sherlock was going to be left behind. Maybe not physically, or even intellectually.

But in terms of emotion.

In terms of _attraction_.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock choked out.

It would take time to analyze. Tests had to be run. Data processed.

John deflated on the bed, like a balloon left out in the cold. Red on his cheeks, slight perspiration dotting the hairline. Embarrassment, not anger.

“What time is it?” John asked, glancing around the room. His eyes fell to the nightstand beside the bed, patted down his pockets. An animal instinct to find his phone.

“Past noon,” Sherlock said, glancing at the ray of light that cut through the room like a knife.

John found his phone buried beneath a pillow, then groaned.

“One twenty-five. I was supposed to meet Mary for lunch an hour ago.”

A slighted woman meant…

“Five missed calls and one-- no, two texts?” Sherlock made a game of it.

John raised an eyebrow, shook his head.

“One text, says--” He cut himself off.

“Says?” Sherlock pressed, curious, and stored away the information for later use. Mary Morstan, not a worrier. Trusting?

“Says, _’Hope you had fun with your boyfriend last night. Reschedule for dinner?’_ ”

“Any smiley face? Ex-dee, colon-pee?”

“What?” John asked, his head tilting to the side.

Sherlock slid around behind John and peered over his shoulder. Saw the little :P tagged onto the end of the message. Mary Morstan, kidder, laidback, went right into Sherlock’s mental file.

“Emoticons, John. Important information,” Sherlock said, eyes lighting up and mouth pulling into a grin. “Looks like your date is rescheduled.” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “What shall we do until then?”

“ _We_ aren’t doing anything,” John said, downing the rest of the fizzy water, then setting the cup on the nightstand. “I need to talk to Mary.”

Sherlock practically danced around him, slid toward the closed door, and leaned his shoulder against it.

“Why? She’s fine with our date--”

“Outing.”

“Yes, outing, of course.”

Sherlock’s full analytical attention washed across John’s face, the way he swallowed thickly, his fingers twitching against the pockets of his pants. Elevated pulse, increased discomfort. It wasn’t enough information, he’d have to keep pressing.

“Lunch, then?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m not--” John’s stomach lurched, then grumbled. “... hungry.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow arched. “I’ll call Mrs. Hudson,” he said.

“She isn’t our maid.” John shook his head and pocketed his phone.

“But she’ll make us lunch.” Sherlock slipped out the door.

\----------

Lunch was an incredible success. Mrs. Hudson was eager to whip up a little something to cure their respective hangovers, and only mildly reprimanded them for getting so drunk so fast. Lightweights.

When they got back to their -- well, _Sherlock’s_ \-- flat, John veered straight for the Sunday news Mrs. Hudson had so kindly placed on the armchair earlier that morning, and Sherlock settled down in front of his laptop. He heard the rustle of flipped paper every minute or so coming from John’s direction, and occupied himself with scanning the case messages he’d gotten overnight.

Adultery.

Adultery.

Adultery with a dog.

Everything pointed to the obscenely boring. Until he stumbled across an unusual request.

“John.”

“Yes?” Sherlock felt John’s eyes burn into the back of his head, the paper laying dormant in the other’s hands. Eager for another case.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

\----------

It wasn’t that Sherlock found any particular merit to the story he’d read. Only that a spectre taking on the mantle of cupid was _slightly_ more interesting than a man whose wife was cheating on him with their Great Dane.

The woman sitting in front of him was about five-foot-five, dark hair. Thin-rimmed glasses slid down her nose. Nervous gestures: hand wringing, knuckle cracking, slightly elevated intervals of swallowing (increased saliva output?). Ruddy cheeks. Embarrassed by her ghost theory (not one to believe in superstition) but unable to understand it any other way. Legs closed, hands fidgeting in her lap, eyes cast downward.

Not even an open book -- a five-page pamphlet Sherlock could skim through.

“Amelia,” John said, leaning forward in his chair, gaining her easy attention. He sat to Sherlock’s right, the very picture of soft concern. Those kaleidoscope eyes were probably tearing up, inciting a puppy-like fervor for affection, simply because they _could_. It was in Sherlock’s best interests not to look and see.

“Amelia,” Sherlock parroted, snapping her attention back to him. Her eyes brimmed like a flooded creek, and she sniffled softly.

“I just--” Her throat shook away the words, forcing her to start over. “I just don’t understand what happened. I thought we had something special, you know? She was so… so perfect. And then she just disappeared.”

In his peripheral, Sherlock saw John settle deeper into his chair. Fidgeting. Uncomfortable with their client’s sexuality?

“Did you go looking for her?” Sherlock asked, leaning forward. He set his elbows on his knees and threaded his fingers together in front of his mouth.

“Yes!” Amelia said, hands darting in front of her, fluttering like paper caught on a light breeze. “I went to her apartment one day -- I’d been there a _million_ times -- and everything was gone. Even the landlord said he hadn’t rented the place in a year. Bad neighborhood, and pricey.” Her fingertips trailed softly around the edge of her skirt, eyes downcast. “Cadence always talked about how pricey it was.”

“Did you file a missing persons report?” John piped in, clearing his throat.

“Yes,” Amelia answered, then paused.

Hesitation. Intriguing.

“I gave them her mum’s phone number. They called, and--” She swallowed thickly, like warm honey was clinging to her tonsils. “I’d only met Cadence’s mum once before. I had her number ‘cause Cadence’s cell died this one time and she needed to call her. But--”

Okay, the dramatic suspense was getting old. Sherlock wondered where John and Mary were going for dinner, and if they wouldn’t mind a little company. The supposedly intriguing case had turned out to be rather droll. Just another hit and run.

“The number didn’t work anymore?” Sherlock butted in, pulling his hands away from his lips and laying back in his chair. Visions of lobster dinner danced in his head.

“No,” Amelia said, trembling, glasses drooping to the tip of her nose. The floor demanded her avid attention. “No, they put me on the phone with her. I recognized her voice. She… she said she didn’t have a daughter.”

_There we go_ , Sherlock thought, eyes brightening. He didn’t even try to suppress his smile. _Something worth looking into._

John’s “sounds awful” overlapped Sherlock’s “sounds intriguing.” They glanced at each other, John giving him that _try not to accidentally tear her soul to shreds_ look of his.

Sherlock grinned in reply, throwing back his _oh come now, I can practically see you salivating_ stare.

“We’ll look into it,” John said, nodding toward Amelia. He got up and escorted her to the door.

Sherlock jumped out of his seat, smacked his palms together, and immediately started to pace. Endless threads linked between blurred images flashed through his mind. He crossed out the impossible, and had the list narrowed down to about fifty likely excuses by the time he’d made his first lap around the room.

“Disconcerted with her choice of affair?” Sherlock said when John turned back around to face him. His reasoning split down two paths, one focusing on the case at hand, the other curious about John’s earlier reaction -- how he’d picked at the seat’s fabric and scraped his blunt fingernails down his knee.

“Hm?” John said, grabbing his phone to check the time. The words meandered through his distracted mind, striking a bell as if by accident. “Oh, Amelia? No, of course not,” he said, paused, then sighed. “I was just thinking about Harry. She’s probably pulled a disappearing act like this a million times.”

“Yes, but does your mother denounce her existence?” Sherlock said, spinning on his heel, heading toward the couch again. He paused when he saw John wince out of the corner of his eye. Ah, wrong thing to say. Noted.

“When’s dinner?” he countered.

“An hour from now. I should get ready.”

“Wonderful. And where…?”

“Nope,” John said, striding toward his chair, his attention not even fixed on Sherlock. “You aren’t invited, so don’t ask, and stop trying to stalk me.”

“I’m not allowed to banter?” Sherlock said, his feet grounded in front of the couch, eyebrow arched.

“You use your banter for evil, Sherlock.” John picked up his coat from the edge of the seat. “ _Evil_.”

Sherlock adjusted the cuff on his jacket, swiped a hand down the lapel, smiled.

“You have no proof.”


End file.
